Rituals of Comfort
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Everyone has them. (set in s4, mostly canon compliant)
_A/N: I wrote this in the duration of s4 (just after Charlie came back fulltime) but I never published it because I was also working on impulsive and I didn't want to put it up after a small loan of a million dollars because of how short that one was. I've fallen into writers block this week so hopefully you all can enjoy this while I try and break out of it. Warnings for insomnia. Please leave a review if you liked it!_

XXX

When he'd been younger, he'd not had much of a predilection to cigarettes. But he was older now, and he understood. His lighter clicks twice before flaring to life. Illumination. Smoke. He's not meant to smoke in the house but he finds it unlikely that anyone will be scolding him. If they even notice.

He's being unfair, he knows. Blake is in the middle of a crisis, Mrs Beazley is losing her lover for a second time and Mrs Blake. Well.

It's not like this is the first time he's ever been unnoticed, he thought, clasping the thin, white paper cylinder between his thumb and pointer finger. Most of his childhood had been spent trying desperately to get his parents attention, first by good grades, and then graduating to being a problem child in his late teenage years.

His ribs still hurt, but he's pretty good at hiding it now the pain has dulled to manageable. He deposits his lighter on his bedside table, and walked to open a window. His room faced the side of the house. The air is chilly on his face, stinging his nose and reddening his cheeks.

He misses Mattie. She promised she would call when she arrived, but she hasn't yet. That was so like her, really. To forget him. But its fine. He's fine. Just fine. He would have thought that she would at least call for Mrs Beazley Or the Doctor. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ash. A personal ritual he sought solace in.

Everyone has personal rituals. Blake liked to drink, and graduated from drink to drink as the night went on, Mattie liked to eat her breakfast in a specific order, Hobart did his police reports out of order and Lawson liked to smoke the cigarettes in the middle of the box. Frank….

Frank Carlyle, his new boss. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Liked to bet. And that was all he knew. Hm. He couldn't get a good sense of the man, not really. He let Blake roam free, was nicer to him then Lawson ever had been, and even felt compelled to invite him out for drinks. Not that he'd gone, or if he'd been in town, would have gone.

Lawson had never done that. Lawson wasn't even really friendly. Lawson was hit in the legs by a car while saving his life, so he supposes he shouldn't be too mad with him. He hates owing people. He hates when people have something they can hold over his head. _It was just an accident_ Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He stared out at the blue tinted horizon. He likes living on the second floor. Ash. The cold makes his eyes water. His fingers are stiff with chill. Each inhale warms him from the inside out. Each inhale makes his ribs hurt. He feels tired, but sleep won't come.

No matter how long he stays in bed, tossing and turning, sweating one minute and too cold the next, to many pillows or not enough, feeling constricted under the doona and feeling as though he simply cannot live without it, he cannot fall asleep. The only time he can is when his body actually gives up and he sleeps wherever he can find somewhere mildly comfortable.

Two nights ago, he just collapsed onto the couch and slept for six hours. No one even found it odd enough to wake him. Six nights ago, after they found that woman, he slept soundly. He woke up tired, so tired he resorted to coffee over tea to keep him awake long enough actually work. No one found that odd either, except for Frank Carlyle.

And here he is again, thinking about Frank bloody Carlyle. He keeps waiting for him to snap and yell at the Doctor, or at the very least, reel him him. Munro has probably tainted his perception of people, but at least Munro was never anything but upfront with his opinions.

He thinks casually about how Munro took him out for lunch. Whats even worse he actually enjoyed the outing, as silent and devoid as it was. He felt like he had a similar personality to Munro, and Blake would slap him out for saying that, even thinking it but he holds no malice towards the man.

Munro's name was something of a dirty word at home - And at the station. Blake has a rather particular hate for him. Charlie doesn't even like thinking about Munro in Blake's presence. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. But he can't help it. Munro, in the end, was just doing his job, and obeying his own fucked up morals.

Charlie had done the same in the end. He actually missed him at times. He enjoyed spending time with him. His observations were astute and his opinions stark. And he'd liked that. A person without the padding of kindness and patience. Which was not to say that he didn't like the people who had the padding, the 'Good Morning Charlie's and the conversational laughs, that was true. But he'd been different.

But that was about all he missed of Munro. His life is certainly easier without him in it. His place of residence is no longer threatened, he's not being forced to make choices and pick sides, Blake isn't even angry with him anymore.

Not since 'Any time, Doc.'

Not since he went against his own morals to save someone else. It was interesting, having someone owe him. Not that he would ever be in a position to claim it, if Lawson's report was anything to go by. People keep trying to protect him, from Munro telling him to leave the room to Lawson literally getting hit by a car. Inhale. Exhale.

He's pretty fucking sick of it, actually.

Why are people so convinced that he needs to be protected. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. He's not a child, he's not a baby. He's perfectly capable of making his own choices and doing what he has to do. He had known what he was doing, when it came to Munro, and it makes him angry that they even thought, for one minute, that he would leave them, after everything.

He's too tired to be angry for very long, though.

It was his goal, his approach, his desire. He capitalized on mistrust, and came out swinging. But it still hurts him. His thoughts have strayed from what he was thinking about before, he considers. Ash. He's too tired to feel anything more then mild apathy.

He wonders if maybe he should approach Blake and ask for pills that will put him to sleep, he knows the man could very easily write him something up that would fix this whole situation. But Blake is busy. Everyone is busy.

...Everyone except him. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ash.

He knows that he shouldn't be upset. That Mrs Blake had been through enough, no one needed him adding angst to the situation. And if he couldn't sleep then so be it. Lawson has trouble sleeping as well, this he knows.

He spent the night there once, a long time ago, several months, when Blake was in Adelaide presumably getting down 'n dirty with Mrs Beazley. It had been raining too hard for him to get home so he'd slept on the sofa, feeling like an out of place wife in the home of the other woman. But it had been nice.

Lawson went outside at half past four for a smoke. Charlie followed, and stood with him, watching the pouring rain. They shared a cigarette. Lawson told him war stories, every story you could imagine while he'd listened in. His stories hadn't been as interesting, but Lawson was polite enough to listen in anyway. He was a strange man. Never horrible, but never quite kind either.

Frank was not like that. There was something about him that Charlie found suspicious, in the worst sort of way. The man had never done anything that would inspire a lack of confidence. He as the the antithesis of Munro. But since the betting scandal at the track Charlie found his confidence in the man sliding.

Bill said he never felt anything like that. Arguably, Bill was not a person to be judging addictions with, given his own predilection to alcohol, but Charlie won't begrudge the man that. Logically, everyone must have a vice. He wonders what vice Rose Anderson possesses.

Another interesting person: Rose Anderson. A journalist, a photographer, a wearer of cardigans. Perhaps her vice was tormenting Edward Tyneman. It's an objectifying though, but he gets a selfish little power rush from the idea of the horrible man's life being made miserable by a six foot two red headed lady. Inhale. But Rose Anderson probably didn't. Exhale. Rose Anderson didn't know him like Charlie did. Rose Anderson hadn't watched sixteen pornographic films with the knowledge that the women in the films were not happily involved.

Charlie can't help but hate him. But he's too tired for a lot of hate to build into the terrifying crescendo it often did, but rather, boils briefly, then goes out. Charlie can't even muster up the energy to be annoyed with Rose, either. Just..Simmers, briefly. Before the apathy saps whatever energy he's built up. Inhale. Exhale. Ash.

He has a thought that he should go see Lawson. He hasn't seen the man since he came to the station, to cowardly to go pay him a visit, to see how he was, to see what he'd done. Even if Lawson denied it, told him it wasn't his fault, Charlie knew it was. Blake doesn't go see Lawson either. He wonders if anyone goes to see Lawson other then Rose. A lump of sadness fills his stomach, and he promises himself that after the next time his traitorous body lets him rest he will go see Lawson. He might even ask Blake about good choices in whiskey, since he doesn't know any.

He glances at the stub of his cigarette that is still burning away in his fingers. He'd transferred it to between his pointer and middle at some point. A long sigh. He took one last drag and closed the window making his way over to his bed, and dropping the stub into his glass of water. There's a soft hiss as it goes out.

He lay back, rests his head on the pillow, pulls the quilt up to his mid chest, and closed his eyes, even though he knew there was no way he was going to be able to sleep. Rituals of comfort. Everyone has them.


End file.
